The Closest Thing
by Anna Maxwell
Summary: Sherlock Holmes must take on his hardest case yet, but not without a little help. Can he and his American cousin defeat his greatest enemy?


Author: Anna Maxwell  
  
Title: The Closest Thing  
  
Date: April 2 2000 to  
  
Summary: Sherlock Holmes must take on his hardest case yet, but not without a little help.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes and corresponding characters, but my characters belong to me. No profit is being made.  
  
"Holmes," I said, "My dear fellow, how much sleep have you honestly gotten in the last seventy-two hours?"  
  
Holmes's grey eyes came to rest upon me. "Watson, my sleeping habits have nothing to do with my present appearance. These bags under my eyes are merely works of make-up art, as is much of the weariness of my features."  
  
Knowing full well that I would not get a straight answer from him, I turned to the young girl sitting in the armchair facing myself. "Breanna?"  
  
She looked up from her book. "During our previous case, the two of us have probably gotten around fifteen hours sleep total."  
  
My face turned to one of shock, and Breanna picked it up instantly. She laughed gently.  
  
"My dear Watson, why in the world does this surprise you? Holmes rarely sleeps more than seven hours a night when he isn't on a case. When he is," she let the statement trail off.  
  
"Yes, I suppose he never did." I agreed.  
  
Holmes began laughing, and the two of us turned to him. "It's quite amusing, the two of you sitting there discussing the facts of my sleep, or lack of them. Lack of sleep does not affect me in the least unless over prolonged periods of time." he said, ending our discussion.  
  
At quarter after six, I thought it best to take my leave and return home. Breanna waved good-bye and Holmes walked me to the door.  
  
I turned to him in complete honesty. "Holmes, old boy, you really do need some time off. I'm quite positive it will add ten years to your life. Take your young cousin in there," I pointed to the flat, "And go somewhere. Greece, Paris, even the English countryside. It will do the two of you a world of good. If you don't do it for you, do it for her. You're thirty; she's twenty. She is a young girl and this non-stop work will kill her and you both eventually. Besides, she's going home to America at the end of summer. Get Mycroft to help you go somewhere but for God's sake do something!" I said this in the equivalent of four seconds, knowing that if I did not rush he would cut me off and change the subject.  
  
For the second time that evening, Sherlock Holmes broke into laughter. "Well, Watson, if you are that insistent upon myself and Breanna taking off somewhere we will. I will talk to Mycroft this evening, and we'll be gone by day after to-morrow."  
  
I looked at him as if he'd just admitted to being Moriarty in disguise. "Are you quite serious?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Well just wire me from wherever you land. And you had better not trick me, Holmes. You had better not."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it, old fellow."  
  
I was very pleased with myself; I had finally convinced London's hardest working man to take a vacation. "All right then. Good-bye Holmes."  
  
"Good-bye, Watson."  
  
  
  
Holmes was as good as his word, and two days later I received a telegram from Rome. Apparently Mycroft had some small problem there. Holmes took that, so it wasn't a complete brain loss for him; it was as much as I could have hoped for.  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Breanna assumes first person.  
  
  
  
Personally, I thought it was all a practical joke when my cousin came back in after seeing Watson out and said, "Get ready to pack your bags, Breanna, we're leaving England."  
  
"Leaving England?" I echoed, still engrossed in the depths of my book. Suddenly the full potential of his sentence hit me like a lead bullet. I looked up sharply. "Leaving England?" I repeated.  
  
"Yes, I do believe that's what I said, my dear." He returned, smiling.  
  
"What in the world for? And where are we going?" I asked, trying to sort out the sea of questions in the most important order.  
  
"Watson firmly believes that the two of us are in danger of dropping dead if we do not vacation, so I promised him we would be off this island by day after to-morrow." Holmes answered. "I will contact Mycroft and we shall see where we are off to by late this evening."  
  
Two hours later, everything had been settled and I was contemplating what in the world to pack for a trip to the Mediterranean in the middle of spring. I rang my best friend, Elise Russell the next morning and she came over to help with the small dilemma that had been forced upon me. Holmes had no problems whatsoever (much to my frustration) and we were leaving by boat around six that evening.  
  
Let me tell you here and now, that Sherlock Holmes can be a simply load of fun when he wants to be. And I suppose I had the most fun I had had in a long time during our two weeks touring Italy and Greece. But nothing good ever lasts.  
  
Holmes and I were sitting on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, I reading a British newspaper, much to the annoyance of Holmes who thought it improper for a girl of my age to be reading such a thing, and he a book on ancient Rome. It was my odd habit to read the obituaries in newspapers. I found them extremely interesting, while my peers found it highly grotesque.  
  
So it was that fateful morning that I was casually glancing through them when I came upon the most horrifying shock of my young life.  
  
"Holmes," I managed to gasp.  
  
He looked at me sharply. "What's the matter?"  
  
"I think we had better go back to England." I said quietly and slowly.  
  
He reached over and snatched the paper from me. "Dear God."  
  
This is what the paper said:  
  
Dr. John Watson died today, the result of another of the mysterious murders that have plagued England for the last three days. Dr. Watson was found shot to death in his office. Details of the case have not been released, but in an interview with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, it was mentioned that Professor James Moriarty was suspected. Dr. John Watson was a close friend of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
That was the end of the document, and the end of our short-lived vacation.  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
The train ride back to London from Wales was quiet and sullen. I couldn't tell what Holmes was thinking, or feeling, and that bothered me a great deal. Not that it was surprising, Holmes wasn't ever an open book and never will be, but still Watson was dead. That should have registered somewhere in Holmes's brain. Personally, I wondered if he was in shock or the prospect of facing Moriarty again was taking up all his thought. The latter bothered me even more than not knowing what he was thinking.  
  
"Holmes," I began almost timidly.  
  
"What?" his voice was cool and distant.  
  
I decided to be direct, which I later regretted. "What are you thinking?"  
  
His steel grey eyes swiveled around and locked with mine. "What am I thinking? Shouldn't it be rather obvious, Breanna?" he said sharply.  
  
I narrowed my eyes into what Watson called my 'cat look'. "No, why should it be? Just because you can follow people's eyes and deduct their train of thought does not mean that I can. Besides, even if I could, you have been looking out of a train window for the last half-hour. Not even you could tell what somebody was thinking if they were staring at the landscape that was flying by." I said icily.  
  
Holmes smiled, a small smile, but it was there. "Yes, I suppose that would propose a challenge." He looked back at the escaping countryside.  
  
I sighed. There was no getting a straight answer from the man sometimes. Watson and I knew well enough…. I quickly changed my line of thinking, and tried to fight back tears.  
  
"Pull yourself together, Breanna. There's nothing you can do about it now." He said quietly.  
  
This angered me. Holmes was always saying not to let emotions get in the way of cases, and sometimes life in general. But this was too much. Watson had been Holmes's partner and best friend for years. Holmes cared, I knew it; I had seen it! And here he was acting like it was just another case to solve and file. I told him so.  
  
"For pity's sake, Holmes! Don't you realize what's going on here? Watson has been murdered! And you're just sitting there oblivious to the world like nothing's happened!"  
  
"Oblivious?" he hissed. "Yes of course, Holmes the cold, the untouchable, sits oblivious as the world revolves even after the death of his associate and friend." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it was a whisper of ice that snaked through my veins as my blood froze.  
  
"That's not what I meant," I began, but never got the chance to finish. Holmes left our compartment, and I didn't see him again until we got off in London.  
  
**************************************************************************** ****************  
  
We eventually did get off, and gathered our things together. Holmes was just hailing a cab as I stepped down. A boy put our baggage on the carriage and Holmes helped me inside. We sat facing each other, a position I found uncomfortably familiar.  
  
"Baker Street." Holmes called up. His gaze finally rested on me again. "I think you'd better contact your mother and go home on the next possible ship, Breanna." He said.  
  
I gaped at him incredulously. "Honestly, Holmes, I didn't mean to insult you so far as to have you send me away." I started. That man had the most irritating way of scrambling my thoughts!  
  
His look softened slightly. "Oh, Breanna, really. Do you think I'm that shallow? I know full well what you meant, and in a way you were right. That isn't why I think you should go home."  
  
"Why, then? And so help me if you tell me because it's too dangerous," I warned.  
  
"But it is." He said simply.  
  
I mentally asked God for patience and a long breath, because I was about to talk myself into a corner again. "Holmes, I appreciate the fact you want to protect me, but I really don't think this calls for sending me to New York. I've helped you on cases in the past, and stayed out of your way when necessary. Watson was a good friend of mine too, and I'd feel absolutely miserable if I couldn't do anything to help, or didn't help when I could."  
  
He stared at me again. "You've been taking lessons from him, I can see."  
  
"What?"  
  
Holmes shook his head. "Never mind. Very well! Stay, for now. But, Breanna, here me now, the second I feel that something isn't right, back to New York you go!"  
  
"Deal." I said.  
  
We pulled up to Baker Street, a feeling of foreboding falling over us once more. Holmes looked at the building for a moment, then moved to get out of the cab. He stood on the sidewalk and reached for my hand.  
  
I slipped my hand in his and stepped down next to him. I swear I felt a chill run up my spine at the sight of the empty building. But that would be horribly superstitious of me. He gave a slight tug to my wrist to pull me along.  
  
"Hurry up, Breanna. The first thing we need to do is call Lestrade." He murmured.  
  
"Shouldn't we call Mycroft?" I asked.  
  
"That will be my second order of business. I need you to contact William at the Strand and find out what you can about that article." He ordered, striding into the flat.  
  
"Better yet, why don't I contact the man who wrote it?" I called from among our luggage on the sidewalk.  
  
"Because I don't know the person who wrote it personally. I can't trust someone I don't know, Breanna. I rarely trust the people I do." He shouted from inside.  
  
"And the one person he always did is gone." I sighed.  
  
Harvey, one of the Baker Street Irregulars, jolted me from my thoughts. "Eh, Miss 'olmes, would ye like some 'elp with those bags?"  
  
"Sure, Harvey. Thanks."  
  
"I 'eard 'bout poor Doc Watson. Eh, you'll give our regards to Mr. 'olmes won't you?" he said cautiously. He was probably afraid he'd get his head bit off. I wasn't quite as temper-inclined as my cousin. I smiled at him.  
  
"Thank you, Harvey. I will."  
  
I tipped him as he left and went to find Holmes. I found him sitting in the living room, smoking his pipe, and staring at the stack of papers that held nearly the entire history of his cases; written by the one and only Doctor Watson. Somehow, I got the impression it was the first time in a while he was staring without thinking. And a lightbulb went off over my head.  
  
Who was smart enough to strike a blow so hard it would dull Holmes's senses? Who was cruel enough to do it when he wasn't even there to stop it? Who was insightful enough to know when we'd be gone, and when Watson would be in his office? And lastly, who would be brazen enough to use that information. Only one man's name came to mind. It was preposterous to even think it. He was dead, and had been for close to five years.* Yet, Holmes had come back. Anything was possible, was it not?  
  
"Holmes, those calls?" I said softly.  
  
"Lestrade wasn't in. I'm getting to Mycroft." He replied. He glanced up at me. "You've had a thought. What is it?"  
  
"You tell me." I retorted.  
  
"You think some evil mastermind is behind this, and it's part of a bigger scheme." He said. You could literally see the sarcasm dripping off the statement.  
  
"You hit the nail on the head." I retorted.  
  
He had a thing for ice-like gazes going today. And I was getting slightly fed up with it.  
  
"What? Blast it, Holmes, it's taken us three days to get home. It's been three bloody days since we read the blasted paper and your glaring at me for the only blasted theory I've come up with! What do you think if you're going to be so arrogant about it."  
  
A cold smile crossed his features. "I think ghosts are roaming the earth, Breanna."  
  
My expression must have given away the fact I thought he'd lost his mind.  
  
He nodded. "I wouldn't believe it myself, but Watson," he cringed, "Watson being killed affirms suspicions I had before we ever left England." He shook his head. "I should have never left him. I knew something like this would happen."  
  
"No you didn't. If you knew he'd die you really wouldn't have left." I said.  
  
He stood and moved towards the window. "We're being watched."  
  
"I know. I saw them when Harvey brought the bags in. By the way, he sends the Irregular's regards." I replied.  
  
"His regards? What does he think this is? A wedding?" Holmes snapped.  
  
"Holmes, please. He's seven years old, what's he supposed to think?"  
  
He tapped the window with his pipe. "I don't know."  
  
"Well, you call Mycroft and tomorrow I'll get hold of William." I said.  
  
"Tomorrow?"  
  
"Holmes, it's late. He's probably home by now."  
  
He sighed. "Very well. The more days that go by, the colder the trail gets."  
  
I didn't feel like mentioning that by now, and with who we could be dealing with, it could be an arctic trail.  
  
Sleep was the furthest thing from me as I pitched and tossed in my bed that night. Moonlight glinted off the picture frames on my dresser. My family back in New York, my family here in London, my friends, and there was a picture of Holmes and Watson that was particularly bent on staring at me. Around two a.m. I heard the strains of a violin. And I do mean strains. Holmes was pouring his heart and soul into a song I'd never heard before. Sleep finally came, though at that point I wasn't sure I wanted it.  
  
Morning dawned a grey and dreary day, promising wet, and mud, and hassles. Fortunately, determination runs in the Holmes veins, and I was going to beat this day if it killed me.  
  
Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but the way things were going one never new.  
  
I trapsed out to the living room and absently picked up a dry piece of toast. There was a note taped to the back of it which I nearly chewed through.  
  
Breanna:  
  
Went to see Mycroft. Go see William. Be back by dinner.  
  
Holmes.  
  
Well how do you like that? The man knows me well enough to know I'll eat the toast, and then schedules my entire day in three sentences. Shoot fire.  
  
I pulled my hair back, grabbed my handbag and left. Four minutes later I was back, scrounging around for an umbrella. Six minutes later I was leaving again. I made my way slowly down the street. It was close to deserted because of the rain. Luckily, it meant that the news office wouldn't be buzzing.  
  
I didn't know this William by face, only by name. So at the front desk, I had to ask the William that Holmes works with. Easy as pie.  
  
He wasn't in, so I had to wait in his office. While I was in there, I decided to make the best of it and check his desk out. The usual for a news reporter: typewriter, pencils, pens, scribbled and blotted notes, calendar, deadline reminders, and a little black book. After glancing around I picked it up and flipped through it. Close to the back there was a number, followed by two letters: P.M. I didn't think it meant post meridian. I heard footsteps in the hall outside so I quickly put it back and sat down just as William came in.  
  
"Sorry to keep you waiting Mrs. Holmes." He yawned.  
  
I blanched. He had to be kidding. "It's Ms., I'm not married."  
  
He looked surprised. "Oh, I'm sorry. I just heard 'lady' and 'Holmes' and made the assumption."  
  
"Never assume anything, Mr…"  
  
"Just call me William. What can I do for you?" he asked and slumped in his chair.  
  
I smiled thinly. "I need to know what you know about the article on Doctor John Watson's death."  
  
"Oh, yes. Sad story, really, poor chap didn't have a chance. I was there you know, at the scene. Gruesome picture it was." He answered.  
  
I was suddenly glad that I only had the toast. My imagination wasn't shutting down fast enough for my liking. "Great. About the article?"  
  
"Yes. I think Phil Flanderson wrote it." He said, eyeing me cautiously.  
  
"Was he there?" I pressed.  
  
"He got there about half an hour after I did."  
  
"Did you see anybody around?"  
  
He smirked. "You plan to be a lady detective?"  
  
"Why, William, however did you guess?" I said airily.  
  
"I don't have time to answer anymore of your questions, Ms. Holmes." He said, tone going icy.  
  
I stood and went to the doorway. I turned and made my final question like an afterthought. "William, what do the initials P.M. mean to you?"  
  
"You shouldn't ask questions like that. It's dangerous." He warned.  
  
"I'm an American, I thrive on danger." I retorted.  
  
His steady gaze didn't deter me. "Very well, Ms. Holmes, if you really want more information about the murder of your cousin's associate, Mr. Flanderson should be in tomorrow morning. If you'll excuse me."  
  
I nodded and smiled at him. "Thank you, William, you've been most helpful." I shut the door and stepped to the side of it so he would not see my shadow through the window. Eavesdropping is hardly lady like, but if one just so happens to hear a phone conversation…  
  
As I hoped, William picked up the phone.  
  
"Hello? I need to speak to the Professor." Pause. "Yes, it's important. We have a problem." Pause. "Yes it's a big problem! The Holmes brigade is back in London and the girl is snooping around. If she doesn't pose a threat, she'll report back to that goon detective cousin of hers and that's dangerous water." Pause. "Thank you, Silvers."  
  
Longer pause. Apparently he was on hold. Then:  
  
"Hallo, Professor. Yes, I've got a reason for calling. Oh, he told you." Pause. "I didn't tell the girl anything, but she was looking around in here and she found your initials in my address book." Pause. "No, they don't know he's around. What do you want me to do?" Pause. "Understood. I'll keep you updated." Click. The conversation was over. And I was right; Moriarty was alive, well, and in London. 


End file.
